Characters support group in the Author’s brain…

SCENE: a long, echoey hallway in the depths of the Author’s brain. 

 

A man in late middle age with a seventies mustache and an expensive, wide-lapeled suit checks the names on a bunch of doors. His oxfords click on the polished floor as he passes them. SYMPATHY PUMPS. POWER FANTASIES. MORALITY PETS. DREAM DADDIES. Intriguing as that last may be, with the blacked-out glass in its window, he continues onward. Finally he finds the one he’s looking for, and slips inside.

 

The rest have already arrived there. They are a… strange assortment, to say the least. Two have the accents, manners, and attire of middle class Victorians, a lean woman in widow’s weeds and a handsome bachelor toying with a walking stick. The last is a modern professional man, just a bit younger than the newcomer, with slicked hair and sunglasses indoors. 

 

When our first man enters, they nod politely and take their seats. Clearly they have very little to do with one another in most cases— even the two Victorians who share a surname prefer not to be in the same room —but they have one thing in common that has brought them there today. 

 

Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee in hand, the newcomer addresses the group. “Hey, everybody. I’m the new guy, I guess. The name’s Howard. Howard Stark.”

 

A chorus of diction-appropriate variations on “Hello, Howard,” sound. 

 

“Yeah, I been on the roster for a little while now— mostly comic relief, I guess.” 

 

The Victorian man cackles. “I know, eh?”

 

“Yeah, well, she likes writing in my voice— gettin’ to toss in a little midcentury salesman razzle-dazzle here and there. Mostly I had fun, even though I was the butt of something now and again. Showed up, had some fun, fell in love, got a nice little character journey. But then she had another idea.”

 

The man in the sunglasses snorts. “That’s how it starts.”

 

“Suddenly it’s fifteen years later, I’m in this mess over Vietnam. And everybody’s mad at me, and I’m drinking all the time, and stepping out on my wife. And when my time-traveling buddy takes me fishing to ask me what’s up… turns out it’s all I’m acting out because I’m—“

 

The others in the room finish his sentence all as one. “—getting older.” 

 

Howard nods frantically. “Damn skippy. I mean, I know folks like to figure out why I turned out to be kind of asshole— but loose and drunk? Is that even canon?”

 

“A strong case could be made.” Sunglasses shrugs. “You could say it’s pretty strongly implied.”

 

“Well. Even so. I learned pretty quick this was a thing with her. Guess I figured she’d get on it again— but you never think it’s going to happen to you.” 

 

“And no mistake,” the man with the walking stick agrees. “She gave me a show all to myself— not even my golden boy little brother got that. And she built it entirely around my romantic escapades. And what do I have, smack dab in the middle of my gallivanting? References to middle age spread and the grim specter of aging past my flirtatious charm. Rather takes the wind of a fellow’s sails.”

 

“At least you just got the memento mori treatment,” Sunglasses rejoins. “She threw my back out and had me hook up with an old lady just to get my groove back.”

 

Walking Stick winks at him. “For what it’s worth, Dresden, I think you look smashing.” 

 

“Have to say I agree. But instead of losing my looks, I just had to settle for physical punishment for the sin of not being twenty.”

 

Finally the widow speaks, barking a laugh. “Ha! You call that physical punishment?”

 

Sunglasses rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, we know, Hawking, nobody ever gets it worse than you.”

 

“You’re not the one she uses as a sink for all her doubts. You think you’re pulled through the wringer? Call me when she puts a bullet in your gut!” She raps her fist on her abdomen for emphasis, then fold her arms.

 

Howard looks uncomfortably from face to face. “So… what do you? When she’s riding you hard about it?”

 

“Not much one can, I’m afraid,” Walking Stick admits. “She’s the boss. And God knows she’s only going to get worse about it as time goes on.”

 

Sunglasses grunts. “Well. That’s bleak.”

 

“Could be bleaker,” the widow commented. “We could be her. We’ll stay as we are forever.” Her eyes roll to Howard.  “The only one really getting older here is her.” 

 

He considered this. “In that case… anybody feel like a game of cards?”

 

Walking Stick grins. “Best enjoy the bridge while there’s only four of us. Because more are certainly sure to come.”

 

“Hm,” Sunglasses murmurs. “Better set out some more chairs.”